


Blood and Bone

by hostagesfic



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:12:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostagesfic/pseuds/hostagesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers when they were children, when they'd tumble around on Anne's bed after bath time in just their underwear and Gemma would find the worst ticklish spots to dig her fingers into. It seems infinitely long ago, now. A lifetime away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Bone

**Author's Note:**

> Foreplay-heavy PWP with a pinch of feelings. (We should be working on our Big Bang.)

She's balanced on his thighs and she's heavy, heavier than Zayn, who was the last person who flopped into Harry's lap. It's a nice kind of weight, though, makes him feel grounded and safe and pleasantly surrounded, the same way the smells and sounds of this house do. And they've been kissing a while- ever since Anne and Robin went upstairs and their bedroom door shut, since they heard the shower go on. Long enough that Gemma tastes more like the mulled wine he was drinking than the sparkling rose she had.

Harry's gone warm all over, with the drink and with her, how she touches him everywhere when they kiss, like she's trying to get inside his bones. He wants to tell her she doesn't need to, she's already there. They're made of the same stuff, aren't they? They're inseparable. They're forever. Harry's so fucking drunk on her.

"God," Gemma says, and her voice sounds rough. "You're so hammered, Haz, we're so drunk."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, and bites his lip, watches her toy with the hair behind her ear, the strand across her face. He thinks of when they were kids, properly, and she'd spread him out on the bed and rub his cock all over her pussy and make him beg. She never let him- they never did, but there was always that reckless wonder. What if. Harry wants her so badly, it feels like he's been waiting twenty years instead of just ten.

"Yeah," Gemma echoes. She's staring at his mouth, and Harry licks his lips again, slower, just to watch her flush. She retaliates, of course, given a moment, her hand slipping off his shoulder and settling on his hip, massaging slightly, her thumb tracing a crease of his jeans towards his fly.

It's the same game they've been playing since they were children. The stakes are just a bit higher now. Gemma's face is pink with the wine and the touches and her throat is flushed, all the way down the front of her blouse. It's been months, and Harry wants to suck on her tits. She laughs, and she must be able to tell it, because he can see her nipples pebbled up through her bra and the weave of her jumper.

Harry leans up and kisses her on her open, smiling mouth, licking at her front teeth and pressing his own grin against hers when she tries to snap at his lips. She's rocking gently in his lap, but neither of them can get friction like this. Harry shudders, thinking about the last time they came, piled up in the same armchair with hands down each other's pants, gasping into each other's mouths.

"How can you even-" Gemma says, smushed, and Harry laughs until her grip on his cock through the denim of his trousers makes him moan.

His feet twitch against the floor, his knees jostling her a little. Gemma just smiles down at him, pleased and amused in equal measure. "You're so beautiful," Harry says, wistfully. He's drunk, and it's not the right thing to say; it softens Gemma's face and she's more sister than lover when she leans in to kiss his forehead, smooth the hair out of his eyes.

She gets to her feet with barely a wobble, but her fingers tremble on his shoulder, where she holds on for balance as she walks around the chair and into the kitchen. "I need water," she says, and Harry lets her go like always.

He's closed his eyes by the time she comes back. He opens them to her standing beside the chair, nursing a glass and watching him. "Sorry?" He offers, feeling suddenly rumpled and childish, trying to straighten up and stretching.

"Take me to bed," Gemma says.

Harry looks at her for a long moment, blinking and then shaking his head slightly. Without her contact high, his head isn't half as muddled, but he still can't be hearing her right.

"I said," Gemma repeats, clearly. Harry's probably the only one who could hear the tremble in it. "Take me to bed."

Harry's mind might be sobering up but his body hasn't yet, uncooperative and awkward as he stumbles upright and takes her hand in his, holds her tight all the way up the stairs, doesn't let go, even when he hits the bannister and Robin's voice sounds from his shared room with Anne, asking if he's alright.

"M good," Harry says, squeakily, and Gemma smothers a laugh behind him as they move down the hall.

When Gemma closes the door behind them, they both let out a breath. Harry's shaking in earnest now, and she grabs his forearms and squeezes, her nails biting into the soft insides of his elbows, grounding him. "I want to fuck you," he admits, like it's a secret even now.

"Shhh," Gemma hisses, her face dark with blushing even in the dim light of his childhood bedroom. "Don't- don't _say_ that, god."

"It's true," Harry says, quieter, a little stubborn. "I do, I _have_ , all along, you know that."

Gemma closes her eyes and shivers, and Harry feels it run through both of them like a current. "Just let me touch you," he says, appeasingly. "Just let me make you feel good, Gem, I'll be happy with that, I swear."

Gemma leans up and kisses him, her hands sliding up his arms to his shoulders and urging him down to meet her. It's a gentle kiss, trembling and sweet turning into longing and wet, and Harry's breathless when she pulls away. "Alright," she says, and he isn't sure to what, but it'll be enough.

She steps back and pulls her jumper over her head quickly, all the fluid grace Harry can't manage on even his best days. Her bra is navy, with striped lace at the edges. Harry's staring, he knows it, but he can see the shallow rise and fall of her chest, her ribs, and the way it makes her breasts move, soft curves in the dim light, is better than the best-lit high fashion spread or lingerie shoot he's ever seen.

She's staring back at him when he finally lifts his eyes to her face. She raises an eyebrow. Harry flushes. "Get your kit off, then," Gemma says, softly.

Harry undoes his belt, his fly, drags his jeans down his thighs and off his ankles without breaking her gaze, tugs off his first flannel shirt and then the tee he'd worn underneath, leaves it all in a pile. She's just watching him, her fingers playing with the pockets and belt loops of her own jeans.

Harry's left in his pants with the absurd feeling he should cross his hands in front of himself. Even that wouldn't do much to hide the obvious swell of his dick, though.

Gemma's smile looks suspiciously watery, but she inclines her head, gestures impatiently at him. "Not going to make a lady undress herself, are you?"

"No," Harry says quickly, "no, I just wasn't sure..."

Gemma shakes her head, shoves a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll tell you if it's too... I'll tell you to stop," she finishes, and bites her lip.

He nods. It takes a long time to open the first button on her fly, his fingers almost too big to be useful, but the zipper is easy enough. He hooks his fingers in her belt loops and drags the jeans off her hips, and she shimmies in place to help him. The movement drags the sides of her thong down. Harry's nearly relieved that it doesn't match her bra- it's black, with a tiny white bow at the center under her belly button.

She's impatient, now, shifting like she wants to step out of her jeans. But Harry wants to savor this, kisses her appeasingly before sinking to his knees in front of her and pressing his face to her stomach, kissing her warm skin.

He takes his time working her jeans down, first to her thighs, his hands pausing to touch the smooth, pale skin there, then to her knees, bending to kiss the sensitive sides where they turn to ticklish spots he's known since he was little.

Gemma grabs at his shoulders for balance as he finally drags the jeans off her ankles, and he looks up at her, the long lines of her body in shadow, the drape of her hair falling in her face as she looks down at him.

"Harry," Gemma whispers, and Harry leans his forehead against her thigh, takes a deep breath. Everything's still alcohol-warm and easy, a sluggish want rippling through his limbs, but he can think clearer now. It's frightening. "Harry," Gemma says again, sharper, and he gets to his feet, cups her jaw in his hands and kisses her helplessly.

Gemma swallows hard; Harry feels it through their kiss and leans back to let her breathe. She squeezes his arm. "Bed."

"Yeah?" Harry can't help asking, his hands searching out her sides to soothe and finding himself unable to tear them away. He can't bear asking if she's sure; he trusts Gemma, knows she'll say if she thinks they should stop. Harry thinks they've gone a bit too far for that now.

He remembers when they were children, when they'd tumble around on Anne's bed after bath time in just their underwear and Gemma would find the worst ticklish spots to dig her fingers into. It seems infinitely long ago, now. A lifetime away. She steps backwards, drawing him with her to the edge of the bed and onto the mattress. As she stretches out on the rumpled duvet, Harry crawls between her legs, leaning over her.

She turns her face away, the red brand of a blush blatant down her throat and across her chest, into the hollow between her breasts. Harry presses his face to her stomach and feels the tremor of her shallow breathing, the clamor of her heartbeat matching his. His hand cups her through her underwear and his fingers find the cotton damp, making his breath catch.

Gemma makes a noise above him, stifled and guilty. Harry kisses the pale skin of her belly, pressing his fingertips at the wet spot of her panties and rubbing until she makes the sound again, closer to a whine this time, and turns her face to him. “You’re such a tease,” she mutters, reaching a hand into his hair and cupping the side of his face.

Harry grins, hesitant but growing as she returns it. "When've I... Ever... Left you hanging?" He asks, punctuated with kisses across her skin to her bellybutton.

Gemma squirms, and shoves her knee into his shoulder, tugs his hair. "Never," she admits. His smile scrapes teeth across the sensitive skin below her bellybutton. As he ducks his head lower, she catches him with hands on his cheeks. "Not now," she says, gentle but inarguable.

Harry can't help pressing a single kiss to her cunt through the damp material before he lifts his head. If he's not to use his mouth, maybe she'll let him use his fingers, press them in deep the way she likes and let her ride them until she's shameless and loud, like she had been in Australia.

Maybe she'll want to ride his thigh, the way she had in California, rubbing her clit against his skin through her underwear and gasping, digging crescent moon bruises into his abs with her freshly painted nails.

Anything more than that feels too big to imagine, too much to hope for. Harry can't ask for it. He scoots over Gemma's thigh to move up and lay beside her on the bed, kiss the corner of her mouth.

"D'you have a condom?"

Harry stares at her. "A-?"

"A condom," Gemma says, grimacing. "Jesus, Harry."

"Uh," Harry says, and nods. "Yeah, a condom, yes... Just... My bag. I'll get it?"

Gemma raises an eyebrow at him, and he nods again. "Right. I'll be... Just a second, then." He slithers away and off the bed, walking stiff legged across the room to his duffle and digging through the end pockets. It seems like it takes forever for his fingers to close around the welcome shape of crinkling foil.

When he gets back on the bed, Gemma’s rubbing at her clit through her panties, and she smacks his hand away when he reaches to take over. “Get it on already,” she says. “I’m good.”

Harry wants to ask if she is, because her voice is shaking, but his own would only do the same, and he trusts her. Still, always. He shimmies awkwardly out of his briefs, watching her eyes follow the bounce and bobble of his dick as it comes free of the material. Gemma makes a face when she realizes he’s caught her, swats at his thigh. It only makes him smile. Even the tangle of nerves in his stomach can’t keep him from laughing when she rolls her eyes. By the time he’s tucking thumbs under the elastic of her panties, they’re both giggling, and when he drags them down to her knees, Gemma sits up to smother the noise between their lips.

When he touches her, she’s as wet as he remembers from every time before, and the thought that he’ll get to feel that so much more intensely is dizzying. He ducks his head to her shoulder to hide for a moment, drops his hand on her thigh. Her hands are comforting on his shoulders, tracing out the tension and chasing the tremors until all he can feel is her warmth again. Gemma kisses his throat. “Are you sure?” she asks the hair behind his ear.

“Yeah,” he tells the soft skin below her jaw.

“Okay,” she breathes, and he feels it, reverberating through her vocal chords and setting him thrumming. She sits back, and he can feel her shaking still, but the two of them are shaking together, not apart, this time.

“How d’you want to…” he sucks his lip between his teeth, and flushes, grinning helplessly at her.

Gemma shakes her head, and looks both fond and like she might want to hit him again. He wouldn’t object, exactly. “However. It’s your fantasy, innit?”

Harry snorts, running his hand up her thigh, thumbing at her hip bone, the jut of it and the soft counterpoint the curve of her stomach forms. “Ours,” he says.

“Ours,” she agrees, and her eyes are serious this time. Harry knows they’re both thinking of all the times they’ve come this far and gotten off on just the thought of it, talking about more than fingers and mouths and touches always careful not to cross the line in the sand. When Gemma kisses him, it feels like they’re kids, kicking barefoot through it, running for the surf.

“Alright,” he mumbles, damp against her mouth, and she laughs again, “okay, okay. Alright?”

“Alright,” she echoes, and they grin at each other for another second before she leans back on her elbows, reaching behind herself for the snap of her bra. Harry bites open the condom packet and tosses away the foil, watches as her boobs settle, full and free. He wants to kiss the red marks of her underwire, but he can do that later. Now she’s propping herself up on a pillow and spreading her legs for him, and he goes automatically, settling between her thighs.

When he slides in, it’s to the rhythm of Gemma’s fingers, flexing in their grip on his shoulders, the beat of her breath, their ribs working together, mouths open against each other just to share air. She’s so slick it’s all he can register at first, how easily, how well she takes him. Her ankle hooks over his calf like they’ve done this before, like their bodies already know how to fit together.

She’s so slick, and he still has to stop halfway, when she pinches his arm and hisses for him to go slower. “Don’t even,” she says, when he opens his mouth, apparently looking too smug for her to trust what might come out. So he doesn’t, just kisses the corner of her mouth and keeps quiet, waits until she’s tilting her hips up and pressing at the small of his back for more.

Even then Harry doesn’t go fast, exactly; it feels like it’d be a disservice to the way he’s imagined this, like it would be about taking more than sharing, more than giving himself to her like he’s been wanting to for so long. He’s close embarrassingly fast, warmth mixing with the alcohol in his belly, and he tears his eyes away from the curves of her waist and her breasts, her nipples the exact same dusky pink as his own, to ask, “What d’you need?”

Gemma drags her teeth off her lower lip, shifts her hips in time to meet his steady thrusts. “Bit’a room,” she mutters, wedging her hand between their stomachs, reaching to rub her clit. Harry arches his back, and while the difference is minimal, Gemma still nods approvingly, brings her free hand up to toy with one of her nipples, sucking her lower lip into her mouth again and flaring her nostrils on a harsh exhale.

Harry bends to press his forehead to hers, kisses the bridge of her nose and the corner of her mouth. He’s trying hard to keep pace and not to lose his rhythm, but Gemma’s pinching at her nipple in his peripheral vision, and the fingers of her other hand keep bumping his stomach. He can’t help the way his hips jerk off-time and the little grunt he gives when she clenches down on his cock.

In one quick motion, Gemma takes her hand off her nipple and uses it at the back of Harry’s neck to drag him down into a kiss to muffle her own whining as she shakes apart, pressing her heel into the back of his thigh. Her other hand is rough and messy on her clit, fingertips bumping Harry’s dick where it’s still sliding into her. She bites his lip, hard and insistent, and Harry whimpers, the pinch of her teeth and the sting of her nails when he bottoms out and they catch the base of his prick.

“Gem,” he whispers, letting himself fall forward, now that her hand’s flat on her stomach, fingers unmoving. He wants to curl up around her, bury his face in her shoulder, so he does as best he can, kissing the side of her neck.

“C’mon, Harry,” she whispers, fingers tangled in the curls at his nape, tugging insistently.

Harry whimpers again. He doesn’t mean to, just means to scrape his teeth down her neck a little, but she squirms her hips up against his and squeezes down on his cock, and he bites down as he comes, hiccuping on a sob.

Gemma holds him tightly through it, cradling his head against her throat and petting at his shoulders, his side. “You’re alright,” she says gently, even as his hips punch down on hers, reckless as his orgasm winds down.

He knows he’s rather too heavy to just let himself flop indefinitely, but the breath’s punched out of him, and he can’t quite manage to move his limbs. He can barely back up on his knees to let his cock slip free. Gemma makes sure he doesn’t fall too far from her side, though, reels him in with an arm around his chest, their skin overheated and sweat-sticky, breathing in sync.

Harry presses kisses to every bit of her he can reach, from her arm up to her jaw and then back down to her collarbone. The sheen on her chest is bright even in the dim light of the side-table lamp, and she’ll have to remind him to turn it off later. But for now he’s dragging his swollen lips across her nipple. The real world can wait a bit longer. She tilts her chin down. “Kiss me, silly.”

He does.

 


End file.
